


Frigging in the Rigging

by passing-fanciful (kageygirl)



Series: Happy Endings [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Sexual Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:11:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kageygirl/pseuds/passing-fanciful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friends do things for other friends' birthdays.  No big deal, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frigging in the Rigging

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iknowhowyoukiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iknowhowyoukiss/gifts).



> A belated birthday present. Many happy returns of the day, darling!

She takes a deep breath before knocking on his door--well, she tries to, anyway, forgetting herself for a moment. Which means that when he answers the door, she's already a little breathless.

Or maybe the tightness in her chest is courtesy of the way he looks right now, like an invitation to debauchery. In loose sweatpants and bare feet, with a deep blue v-neck t-shirt showing off his biceps and his hair ruffled and damp, every single inch of him makes her fingers itch to go exploring. 

Either way, she breathes out a "Hi," and his grin lights up his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"Evening, Swan," he murmurs, looking like he has a touch of wanderlust himself. "Always a pleasure," he adds, widening his eyes to make it a little dirty, and she shakes her head as he ushers her inside.

With her hands buried in her pockets, she keeps her long coat snugged around her and her backpack slung over one shoulder. "I'm not catching you in the middle of anything, am I?" she asks, glancing between his (oddly appealing) exposed toes and the errant locks of hair brushing his forehead. It's a look that screams "showered after workout" (and whispers "feel free to muss me up some more," _sotto voce_ ), but she wants to be sure he's not busy.

Assuming everything goes as planned, this is definitely an evening she doesn't want to be interrupted.

"Not at all," he says, running a hand through his hair. "In fact, you've given me a reprieve from the papers I have to grade." He waves a hand toward the kitchen table, where she sees his laptop and a neat stack of printouts, and then gives her a pleading look. "The top one seems to have written five pages on 'the Spanish Armando,' and I'm desperately hoping he simply failed to pay attention to spellcheck. If they're all like that, I'll have to drink my way to the bottom."

Leaning ever-so-casually against the back of the couch, she asks, "Do you need to get those done tonight?"

"No, the deadline for the assignment isn't even up yet--those are the early birds. I was merely trying to get a jump on things for this term." He glances over at her, with the absolute devil in his eyes. "But I keep getting… distracted."

She smiles, not even a little ashamed about that. "Hell of a way to spend your birthday," she says. (She's completely aware of the irony, coming from a woman with a string of sad cupcakes and solitary candles behind her, but he doesn't need to know that.)

"I don't know," he says, stepping in front of her, his smile gentle, and yet devastating to her insides. "There's a beautiful woman come to say hello to me. I've certainly had worse times."

She has to look away for a second, because, god. She busies herself with carefully unslinging her backpack, and rests it on the top of the couch cushions. "So, I know you said you weren't making a big deal about it, but I got you something."

"You didn't have to do that, Swan."

She shrugs, not looking up. "I wanted to."

She fishes around in the big compartment, and then pulls out a small box wrapped in black paper with a red ribbon. "First," she says, and hands it to him.

"First?" He raises his eyebrows at her. "Implying a second?"

"Maybe," she says, working her best indifferent shrug.

He tears the paper off--she's so glad he's not a paper-saver, those people are the creepers who collect baby dolls and cat poop--and laughs when he sees what's in the box. Drawing out the heavy chain, he looks closer at the skull-and-crossbones pendant she found in a shop on Beacon Street. "Thank you," he says, looking way too happy about a silly little piece of metal. He sets the box on a side table and ducks his head to drop the chain around his neck. "Do I look a proper pirate, love?" he asks, centering the pendant, and she grins at him.

"Getting there," she says, and hands him the other package, this one just in a narrow brown paper bag. 

He reaches in and pulls out the bottle of dark rum, blinking as he looks at the label. "Wherever did you find it?"

"I have my sources," she says matter-of-factly. He doesn't need to know she drove to Providence to find a brand he once mentioned in passing as one of his favorites--or that she actually bought four bottles, while she was there, just to have extras on hand. 

It wasn't that big a deal, but he might take it the wrong way.

"Thank you," he says again, softly, and leans in to press a kiss against her cheek. She can feel herself blushing, and just nods when he leans back.

"Shall I get you a glass?" He looks her over, taking in the long coat she's still wearing. "Or are you on your way out?"

"I have time for a drink," she says, and when he turns to find glasses, she works on the knot tying her belt closed, loosening it while he's distracted. He comes back with a pair of glasses holding two fingers of rum each, and a look in those blue, blue eyes that says he knows something's up with her. But he hands her a glass without comment, and clinks it against hers.

"Happy Birthday," she says, and takes a drink. It's as smooth as he promised, and the taste is fortifying, helping her get into character. 

She sets her glass down carefully and looks up at him. He's studying her, still, and she thinks, _last chance to back out, Emma_.

But she's come this far, and--well, she really, really wants to see his face.

"There's one more thing," she says, and he nods, never taking his eyes off her.

"They do say good things come in threes." He takes a lingering sip of his drink, letting the rim of his glass drag at his bottom lip, licking away the wetness there, and, oh god, Emma really wants to help him out with that.

So she pops the knot on her belt and shrugs her coat to the floor.

It's the moment of truth--he likes it or he doesn't, he gets it or not, and she fights not to fidget. She channels the impulse into brushing her hair over her shoulders and folding her hands behind her back, with a little twist and an arch to her back that show off her assets.

His expression is worth every single probing question she had to dodge while Ruby was making the corset--more Renfaire tavern wench than dominatrix, a pretty red brocade with black silk roses. It matches the black overskirt and contrasts with the cream chemise, whose scoop neck is low enough to show off exactly what kind of job the corset's doing for her.

He steps forward as if mesmerized, his gaze sweeping over her, and then meeting hers again, blue eyes blazing with want. "Darling, you spoil me," he says, his voice husky, and hearing it makes her bold.

"I _should_ be nervous," she says, in a coquettish voice, picking up his free hand and running her fingers over his palm, fluttering her eyelashes as she glances up at him.

"Oh?" He takes another drink, then sets his own glass aside, watching every move she makes.

"It's not every day a pirate crew buys my services for their captain." She sets his hand on her hip, then runs her fingers over the skull-and-crossbones pendant, letting her nails skim over the bare skin underneath it. "And most pirate captains aren't nearly so handsome."

He gives her one, slow nod as he catches on. "And what kind of services do you intend to provide for the captain?"

She leans in close, tilting her head up, and whispers, "Whatever the captain needs."

He stares at her for a beat, and then his mouth is on hers, his hands sinking into her hair as he backs her against the couch. She hears her backpack fall over behind her, but she doesn't care, because he's kissing her as fiercely as if _he's_ the one who's been planning this for weeks, as if _he's_ the one who spent the day in a whirlwind of nervous excitement, who couldn't concentrate worth a damn at work for thinking about this.

She moans into his mouth and wraps her arms around his waist, dragging him into her, hips flush against his--already forgetting herself, because this is supposed to be about him, what _he_ wants, and here she goes, being greedy. But that apparently works for him, because he makes a pleased noise and picks her up, one arm wrapped under her ass and one behind her back, keeping her stable as he crushes her close. She knew he was strong but jesus _fuck_ is it hot to have him demonstrate it like this. She braces herself against his shoulders as he turns them without breaking the kiss, pressing her close as he slides her back down to her feet.

"What the captain _needs_ ," he says, biting off the words with a rich menace, his voice low and tantalizing, "is to see you splayed out on his bed, milady." As he backs her inexorably towards his bedroom, hands guiding her hips, there's a grim set to his stubbled jaw but a mischievous glint in his eye. That tantalizing combination makes her ache to have those hands on her in other places. 

When the back of her knee hits the mattress, he steadies her for a second before darting his eyes toward the bed. She sits, and scoots herself back until he catches her ankle. "That's far enough," he murmurs.

"Yes, Captain," she says, as demurely as she can manage, and a quick grin flashes over his face, pure Killian. Then he shakes it off, giving her the dangerous Dread Pirate Jones again, and eases off her ankle boots, fingertips teasing her skin as he does so. She sucks in a breath at the feeling, just this side of tickling, and he glances up at her; she gives him a short nod, and his hands move higher, tracing up her legs as he pushes up her skirts.

His thumbs stroke over the inside of her thighs, and she lets her legs fall further open. "Eager thing, aren't you," he says, pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee, scraping his whiskery chin over her skin.

"You hear so many stories about pirates," she says. His fingers drift higher, and she can't help the shiver that runs over her.

"Not to worry, lass," he says, and gives her a wicked grin. "All the stories are true."

He reaches the crease of her thigh, and his eyebrows shoot up when he discovers she isn't wearing underwear, his hands going still on her. "Bloody hell, Emma."

She smirks, and runs her foot along his calf. "Something the matter, Captain?"

He tilts his head as he looks at her, and his expression goes soft in a way that makes her stomach roll over. "Nothing at all, lass." He seems to shift gears, drawing back his hands (damn it), and eases himself down next to her. She can't help frowning as she turns her head to him, but he smiles, and rubs his thumb over the furrows in her forehead. "Relax," he murmurs, and then burrows his hand into her hair again, drawing her in for a kiss, all simmering heat and deliberate, gentle restraint.

It's not what Emma was expecting, _at all_ , and the change of pace leaves her antsy, her body still revved up and raring to go. She reaches for him, gets a hand under his shirt, starts to trace over warm skin and toned muscles and that unexpectedly silky chest hair--

\--but he catches her wrist, and pulls her hand free. "If this is about what _I_ want," he whispers against her mouth, his nose nudging hers, "then you'll have to wait your turn, darling." He kisses her again like he has all the time in the world, tender and yet consuming, as if he doesn't know that the urge to just _do something_ is eating her alive. She can't move well in the corset, not flat on her back like this, and she makes a frustrated noise that has him smiling against her.

"Oh, very well," he says. His hand slips under her skirts again, fingers drifting between her legs, and she moans as he inches his way through her slick folds. He plays her expertly well--turns out there's something to be said for sex with someone who's taken the time to learn what you like--and he seems to be feeding off her reactions. Every sigh and tremor and anxious breath earns her another soft kiss, and when she comes apart, he watches her, his eyes all but glowing.

It's too much, and she squeezes her eyes shut as his lips trail along her jaw, pleasure still ebbing along her nerves. Her chest is tight--the corset, of course, that's what it has to be--and she reaches for the black velvet ribbon tying it closed.

Only to have her hand caught again. "That's not your present to open, love," he says, a dark undercurrent back in his voice, and she opens her eyes to see him staring down at her, all imperious devilry, his new pendant swinging between them and giving her a death's-head grin.

Back on firmer ground, she bites down her own grin, lips pressed together. "Of course, Captain," she says quickly, and watches as he goes for the ribbon himself, untying it with a tug and pulling it free of the eyelets one at a time, torturously slow. When he's got it about halfway open, he reaches through the gap and drags the chemise down, then wraps an arm around her waist and rolls her on top of him. Her breasts spill obscenely over the top of the corset, and he runs his tongue along his bottom lip, shifting her until their hips line up and she can feel his erection pressing against her. 

She grinds her hips against him, and bites her lip; it's a terrible double-edged tease, and she needs _more_ of him. His mouth falls open as he sucks in a sharp breath, and his hands grip her thighs, tight--to hold her close or hold her still, she's not sure. He might not be either, judging by his unsteady smile. 

Looking over at the nightstand, well out of arm's reach, he shakes his head. "Not my best plan, perhaps," he mutters, and shifts, clearly preparing to sit up. 

Emma stops him by planting a hand in the middle of his chest, and slips her other hand just under the top edge of the corset, producing a condom like a dirty magic trick. " _Whatever_ the captain needs," she says, giving him a silly grin--it hits her, suddenly, how this is all kinds of ridiculous--but he laughs with her, and reaches up to cradle her face, pulling her down for a thorough, appreciative kiss.

(She's going to have to apologize to Ruby later, because she was right: that tiny pocket was totally worth the extra work she put in.)

They're both still smiling when Emma leans back. She pauses to consider the clothes situation--she's got like five acres of skirts to deal with, and he's still fully dressed--and it sets her off again, giggling, completely out of character. "Sorry," she says, fingers over her mouth like she can physically hold back her hysterics.

"Never apologize for that, love," he says, drawing her hand away from her face, pressing kisses to her fingertips. "You're beautiful when you laugh." He rubs his thumb over her knuckles, and says, "I'd be a fortunate man indeed if I could make you do it more often."

He really, truly means that, she can tell, and it brings back that tightness in her chest. She slides herself off to one side--drawing a heavy groan from him, hard as he is, and maybe she rubs her leg over him a little more firmly than she needs to on the dismount to make that happen.

"Naked," she says, nudging his hip with her knee. "Now."

"Aye, Captain," he says, with the cheekiest damn grin, and sits up, reaching behind himself to tug his shirt over his head. His new pendant catches on the neckline as the shirt comes free, and he reaches back to pull the chain off.

"No, leave it on," she says, without thinking.

He raises an eyebrow at her, licking his lips and giving her an open-mouthed grin. "You like the idea of being plundered by a pirate, love?"

He's such a goof that she breathes out a laugh (and he preens at being able to make her). There's something so freeing about being able to laugh with him while they're in bed--it's why she wanted to do something special for his birthday, even when he said he wasn't planning to make a big deal about it.

He just makes her feel--lighter, somehow.

(And the mind-blowing orgasms don't suck, either.)

But he's pulling ahead of her in the Nudity Stakes, here, so she tugs enough of the ribbon loose that she can shimmy the corset over her head--only to find him watching her, in turn, with undisguised, lascivious delight. "I do enjoy a good show, love," he says, and rolls his hand at her. "Don't stop on my account."

"Wouldn't dream of it," she says, smirking at him as she works the overskirt off. "Come on, birthday boy. Make with the birthday suit."

She loses the chemise just before he kicks off his sweatpants, and punctuates her win by pinning his hip and swirling her tongue over the head of his cock. He curses softly (she's such a terrible influence), and when she rolls the condom over him, she gives him an extra stroke or two just to watch his eyes darken. "I feel like I should make a 'permission to come aboard' joke," she says, and he barks out a laugh.

"I very much hope you _do_ ," he says, voice dripping with innuendo, as if she could possibly miss the implications.

In retaliation, she swings her leg over his hips and sinks down on him without warning--almost too fast; she has to pause and breathe as she adjusts, the stretch and burn just at the knife-edge where pleasure becomes unbearable. She shifts as she takes him all the way in, and glances up to check on Killian.

The look on his face sets off a different tremor deep inside her, and she closes her eyes as she circles her hips, because that, _that_ is too much to handle.

She hears and feels him moving--the angle changes, and she gasps--and when his arm slides around her waist, pulling her close against his chest, she knows he's sitting up. He rocks into her, dragging her into him with his palm splayed over her lower back. Over and over until they're both slippery with sweat, breath puffing into each other's necks, his chest hair playing against her nipples with every movement and a tight inevitability coiling between them.

"Emma," he says, and she shakes her head, a convulsive jerk. " _Emma_ ," he says again, a low tone of command that compels her to open her eyes. He looks oddly solemn and completely ruined at the same time, but when he sees her looking back, he strokes a finger down her cheek and gives her a shaky smile. "Stay with me, love."

He drops his hand to rub her clit, his thrusts getting sharper, until she comes with a wordless cry, her forehead pressed to his. His hands tight on her hips, he gives a few more thrusts and then he's coming, too, those damned eyelashes fluttering, those twice-damned eyes so open and vulnerable that she feels a hollow in her own chest. 

She swallows, trying to force it down, and when that doesn't work, she kisses him, letting the taste and feel and warmth of him distract her until it eases.

* * *

She doesn't always stay--and he knows her well enough now not to expect her to--but it's his birthday, after all. And, well, she had enough years where no one gave a crap about _her_ birthday that if she's going make the effort for him, she's going to go all out.

So after it's her turn to clean herself up a little in the bathroom, she goes to the second drawer of the dresser to grab the t-shirt that he always sets aside for her, just in case. She keeps her attention on pulling the shirt carefully over her head, instead of noticing the way he's watching her; anything she doesn't see, she doesn't have to think about. 

She's not sure how she would feel if she sees surprise that she's staying. But she's even less sure how she'd feel about--anything else. So this can be part of his present; what she doesn't see, she doesn't have to react to. Which means he doesn't have to deal with whatever messed-up shit is happening in her head, and neither does she.

Win-win.

She keeps her eyes down until she slips into bed and curls into him, tucking her head against the curve of his shoulder, breathing in the warm spice of his skin. Deliberately, desperately casual, until he settles his arm around her and makes it real. There's no way he can miss the tension leaving her body, the way her half-fist relaxes against his chest, but he doesn't say anything, just clicks off the bedside lamp.

The streetlight outside paints jolly stripes across his ceiling through the blinds, and she rubs her cheek against his chest, the darkness making things simpler. "So, you never told me who your favorite pirate is," she says, drawing undefined shapes over his chest with her nails, teasing at his chest hair. "Blackbeard? Captain Kidd?" She sweeps her hand down, palming the jut of his hip and fanning her fingers toward his inner thigh. " _Long_ John Silver?"

He breathes a laugh against the crown of her head, nosing gently through her hair. "Actually, I've always been partial to Captain Hook."

"Really?" she says, lifting her head just enough to glance up at him. "With the--" She curls her finger into a hook shape, swiping at the air. "And that whole--perm situation?"

Her head shifts with the movement as he shrugs under her chin. "He also appreciated good form." Propping a hand behind his head, he stares down at her, mouth doing something suggestive while his eyes catch a gleam of light. "And your form, Swan, is _excellent_."

She flicks at his ribs, making him jump, then rubs over the same spot with her thumb. The hand he's holding her with starts moving, too, and she braces for retaliation. But he just starts stroking down her spine, a long, soothing motion. 

"And you, love?" he asks.

She considers for a moment. "Jack Sparrow."

" _Captain_ Jack Sparrow?" he corrects, humor in his voice.

"I like a guy who knows how to wear eyeliner, what can I say?" She pokes the little skull-and-crossbones sitting on his chest, the chain lying loose around his neck. "But the slot for my _second_ -favorite pirate is up for grabs."

"Duly noted," he murmurs, with the shadow of a smile.

His hand keeps stroking, his touch lulling her into a quiet calm, easing her into the dark. She falls asleep with her hand wrapped around his new pendant, and wakes to a dirty sea shanty sung softly in her ear and an invitation to some quality early-morning pillaging.

(Johnny Depp, it seems, will just have to settle for second best.)


End file.
